


Clever To Fall Apart Completely

by ALC_Punk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Closet Sex, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, F/M, PWP, Present Tense, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 22:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16184687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALC_Punk/pseuds/ALC_Punk
Summary: When Sherlock asks for her help, Molly makes a bit of a joke that ends up spiraling into something she has definitely wanted before. Shameless PWP, really.





	Clever To Fall Apart Completely

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was intended as a short, quick little ficlet that didn't want to actually be short. It got stuck near the middle after handing over the end. But last night (after my bedtime, so I was exhausted at work today, ugh), I finally got the rest of it hammered out.
> 
> So to speak. The very beginning is the scene from _The Reichenbach Fall_ where Sherlock confronts Molly and asks for her help. After listening to it long enough, one assumes their next step was a supply cupboard and porn. 
> 
> The title is a mix-up of lines from Breaking Benjamin's _Until The End_ which came on as I was finishing up the last read-through and seemed to fit the mood.

It's not the sort of thing Molly Hooper has come to expect from Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't ever really see _her_ , or so she assumes. And yet, here he is, something desperate in his eyes. That he has come to her floors her, that he sees her, that he _trusts_ her... it's enough to give a woman a bloody complex. Especially with the answer to her question of _What do you need?_ is:

"You."

Molly tries to break the tension with a joke. "I don't suppose that means you're dragging me into the supply closet for a decent snog."

It falls flat. She winces as soon as the words leave her mouth. "Sorry. Ignore me. I've always had the worst timing--" Her hand raises in a sort of flappy motion that she wishes she hadn't bothered with.

God. She looks like a fucking idiot already, and he's standing there, looking like everything is collapsing around him.

"Would that help? No. Probably--" Sherlock frowns at her, as though the idea has some vague merit. As though kissing in a closet is what will stop the apocalypse from happening. The world is burning down around his ears, and he is now looking confused.

It's a better look than the sadness of earlier, the heart-breaking way he'd watched John Watson in intermittent moments, as though saying goodbye already.

Molly shrugs and glances back into the darkened room. "What do you need, Sherlock?"

As thrilling as it is, _you_ isn't really much of an answer.

"Nearest closet is five meters on the left, but the one two floors up is emptier."

"Wha--"

His hands close on her shoulders, pulling her into him. Tilting her head back, Molly stares up at him, fighting the urge to run. Isn't this what she's always wanted? OK, not in this precise fashion with him desperate (and not in the best way), with the morgue behind him (except in some of her kinkier fantasies, but she's not going to think about them right now), and uncertainty as to the precise reason for his actions in the air.

Then his lips brush over hers, and she's lost for a moment. Sherlock Holmes is kissing Molly Hooper. And rather well, too. Firm lips, a brush of tongue, his fingers stroking along her cheek. More than enough to make any woman's legs turn to jelly.

A shudder wracks him, and he pulls her closer. Molly finds her hand raising to grab his collar. If her legs are going to give out, she needs an anchor.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes is everything she's ever considered and like nothing she's ever done before. A sound escapes her that she's not proud of, but the salt on her lips could be from either of them. She's not going to question the taste of tears as his arms and hands and body shift until one set of fingers grips her hip while the other slides around her face, cupping the side of her head.

When she fetches up against the wall, their teeth clash a little.

"Sorry--" he pulls free from her with an obscene little smack, and Molly's fingernails dig into the side of his neck, where her hand is gripping him.

Not sure when that happened, as she's a little hazy with the taste and feel of Sherlock in her mouth and against her body.

"Too exposed here," the words are murmured as he feathers kisses along her jaw and cheek, pausing to nuzzle right by her ear. The rumble of his voice is lower than normal, and it pulls at her gut. If she could figure out how to bottle that sound, she could make a fortune at a sex shop.

Liquid orgasm inducer in aural form.

"Closet--five meters, you said," she gasps, tilting her head when his teeth drag along the line of her jugular.

Eager, terrified, and confused in multiple measures, Molly pushes at his chest enough to slip free of his grasp. She snags his hand before heading out the door. She locks it without thinking about it, knowing that's procedure, and she's always been good at doing things she's supposed to. Locking the door was drilled into her almost from the first time she stepped into Bart's.

The keys make too much noise as they walk down the hall, and Molly shoves them in her bag.

It's a small closet, full of supplies - mostly for cleaning and the loos, as the staff elevator that the janitors use isn't far away. Sherlock shoves the rolling garbage cans out into the hall and follows her inside.

Standing there, it's suddenly a little too much, and Molly looks up at him. "Sherlock..."

"Is this all wrong? Too much?" He gives a half-laugh, half-something that might be a sob, and closes his eyes. "I'm not. This isn't--"

"No." Her hands reach out of their own accord, and she's pulling him in with her. The door slips closed. Standing in the semi-darkness, the bare bulb in the corner is enough to see that his eyes are still closed. It doesn't matter if there's still a part of her that wonders if he's doing this as some sort of twisted game. "You're leaving, aren't you."

The one thing that makes sense. If he's dying, she's not letting him. He's not going to die, but something else is going to happen. Moriarty, the trial, the kidnapping, the warrant out for his arrest. All of it is crashing down around him like a house of cards. Molly never liked the story of the three little pigs, but Jim would have been the wolf and he would have brought dynamite as back-up when there were bricks involved.

And she doesn't want to consider where she fits in this game of brinkmanship with a man as insane as Jim Moriarty.

"Yes." He doesn't ask how she knows. Leaning forward, his hands on her hips, he leans his forehead against hers.

No point in asking how long the have, so she doesn't. The strap from her bag is digging into her shoulder, and she leans back a bit to get it up and over her head. The thud as it hits the floor makes them both jump.

"Molly..."

"We got distracted," she whispers, fingers reaching up to brush over his cheeks. If this is all he can give her, if this is the only moment they will have, she will take it and be damned. Memories are more precious than the lies she could tell herself, or the fantasies she could build. "I asked you what you needed, Sherlock."

His lips tip up in a little smile, "Thank you."

"Thank me later, after--" she replies before she pushes up on her toes and captures that smile with a brush of her own lips.

As snogs went, he wasn't half-bad at it. Between them, they manage not to be too awkward, even in the space they have. The scent of pine cleaner and the rattle of a mop when he shifts unwisely, is more than enough accompaniment, as far as she cares. It's one thing she plans to edit out in later re-tellings in her brain.

Though dreams are another matter. Molly's certain that any dreams she has about kissing Sherlock Holmes until her brain has stopped will include a chorus of mops, with buckets on brass and feather dusters on drums.

He kisses well, almost too technically perfect until Molly's nails dig into the nape of his neck. Then he's all desperation and fingers dragging at her hips to pull her closer.

The thought occurs to her that if this is all they have, then she should have more than kisses to remember him by. It's a stupid argument, and one she'd smack herself for at any other time. But she has known this man for half a decade, and he's what she's always wanted. If he's going to give himself to her like a prize bull in a carnival, she's going to take what she can have.

It's selfish.

She doesn't care.

Besides, she offered, didn't she?

They shift, and Molly drags at the collar of his coat, pulling it open. His neck and back have to be killing him from the angle, and she wishes as she has before, that she wasn't quite so short. Or he wasn't so bloody tall. Perhaps if someone chopped him off at the knees.

Giggling is entirely not what she's supposed to be doing and Sherlock cuts her off easily, teeth nipping at her pulse point.

The sound she makes is half-purr, half-moan, and it's all he needs to start experimenting. Kisses and nips, licks and then a harsh _suck_ right at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Everything he can do to get her to make a sound.

Molly pushes him away a little, panting. "If this is all we have--"

"Sentimental rubbish isn't my forte."

"Not sentiment, you idiot." For just a moment, she teeters on the brink then she plunges ahead recklessly. "Sex, Sherlock. If you're leaving, I want to fuck."

A muffled groan escapes him, and he kisses her fiercely.

"You said you needed me. Well I need you, too."

It's the most trite thing she could have said in the situation, but he doesn't call her on it, more focused on stretching the neck of her blouse open further so he can suck at the skin of her shoulder. Molly isn't sure when she lost her cardigan, but she spots it when she shoves his coat off his shoulders. She also hopes he doesn't manage to rip the blouse, it's one of her favorites.

Sherlock drags at the elastic in her hair, pulling it free and burying his fingers into the mass of it.

A purr escapes her at the feel, and she thinks she could stand there with Sherlock combing his fingers through her hair forever while his mouth devours hers. But he's too tall and her own neck is beginning to ache from the angle, and so she pulls back a little, looking around until she realizes the shelf behind her is the answer.

It's almost the right height, and she grabs several of the stacks of paper towels and tosses them to the floor, clearing more than enough space, and hops up onto it. The shelf isn't the best option, a bed would be better. But it's what's available, and it's sturdy enough for the use they'll put it to.

Molly's heard about more than one assignation in this closet. Firmly, she tells herself she's not going to become a gossip statistic point.

"Clever girl," he says, and then he's kissing her again.

The adjustment makes it easier on the both of them, and Molly finds herself kissing back rather desperately. With no further distractions, she can feel the heat of him between her legs. The clenching in her belly and the ache further down is arousal as she hasn't felt it in months. For one moment, she thinks of how easily he could slide into her, even now.

Molly has always liked sex, or at least the idea of it, and vibrators are certainly wonderful. Most of the men she's slept with weren't awful, but none of them were keepers. She's really hoping that if this goes any farther that Sherlock Holmes will end up in the keepers category.

It would be rather awful if he were shit at sex.

So many shattered illusions all in one go. Molly shoves the idea away and grabs for the top of his trousers, pulling him even closer.

Giggling would _definitely_ break the mood they're building.

Probably.

His mouth moves down her neck, his hands start working on her buttons. He's very handy with them, and she files that away for the months and years he might be dead. Fantasies are always best with a dash of reality.

Reckless, she yanks at his collar, but the buttons strain and stay fastened and un-popped off. "Damn. Always looks so easy in the movies."

"Porn," Sherlock contradicts, dipping down to skim his mouth along the tops of her breasts. "Internet porn is never very authentic."

She mewls. It's an embarrassing sound to make, but the combination of his mouth on her breasts--and not even the nipples, which are tight and aching for the attention--plus his ridiculous assertion is enough to make her more turned on.

Fuck, but she's always had a thing for his mind. Even if this is less smarts and more derision.

"Not going to ask--" she breaks off because now he has managed to tug down one of the cups of her bra and his mouth has latched onto the nipple. The sound she makes causes her to flush further. "God, you're good at that."

"Mm." He sucks just a bit harder, grazing the sides of the nipple with his teeth.

Molly is wondering if she could turn into one of those women who orgasm from nipple stimulation alone, when he finishes unbuttoning her shirt and gets her bra open.

It sags down and he tugs it free, tossing it to the side before returning his attention to her nipples, biting down gently on the neglected one.

_Definitely_ grounds for multiple fantasies, Molly decides hazily.

She was trying to get his shirt off, wasn't she? Mindlessly, she manages another button or two before he reluctantly steps away from her to take over divesting himself. The movement wakes her from the pleasurable haze enough to remember her knickers and trousers and shoes.

Wobbly, she gets to her feet to rid herself of them.

Then his hands are on her hips, helping her back up before one slips between her legs, stroking lazily up her inner thigh until the tips of his fingers brush over her vulva. She's already soaked, she knows, and he lets out a strangled sound at the feel of it.

Another thing she'll tuck away. That she made the great Sherlock Holmes sound like a desperate man when he touched her cunt.

Giggles want to break free, and she shoves them away. It's hysteria, maybe. And not helpful. Molly reaches out for his shoulder, pulling him back in-between her legs. "Condom?"

There's a waver in her voice that she ignores. He does, too. "Pocket."

Molly discovers something else to add to her catalog of _this is why Sherlock is hot_. He stands in front of her, legs spread and cock jutting out. Perfect and of a size that makes her want to kneel at his feet and suck it until he's begging her to let him come. She's very glad to know that his size matches her fantasies. In addition, Sherlock rolling a condom down his own length, with his eyes on her, gaze hot and fierce?

She finds herself reaching down to touch herself, flicking a finger over her clit and biting her lip as she returns the look ten-fold.

"Fuck," he growls before stepping back into her, pushing her legs wide. He grinds against her, the hot length of him feeling glorious.

"Stop fucking teasing, Sherlock," hand skimming up his arm to his shoulder, Molly digs her nails into the skin there. "Just fucking shag me."

"Articulate."

"If I suck your cock, will it make your mouth shut up?"

He surges against her, tip sliding in, then out, then plunging in to the hilt. Grabbing for his neck, Molly yanks his mouth back to hers, letting loose a loud moan as her tongue echoes the feel of his cock moving within her.

One of her hands reaches blindly for his, fingers sliding together.

It's the only part of the encounter that speaks of more than lust or desperation. Molly wraps a leg around him, heel digging into that perfect ass that she hasn't actually had a chance to look at naked.

She needs to fix that, she suddenly decides, and does so by tearing her mouth free of his and bending sideways. It's awkward and she nearly knocks him over and herself off the shelf in a tangle of limbs and paper towels. The angle isn't that great, but it's still enough to see how lovely it is. "Always thought it would be gorgeous bare."

There are times she has hated John Watson's inability to enjoy a naked or sheet-clad Sherlock poncing around their shared flat. 

"Molly--" Sherlock yanks her back up-right, swearing about how she disrupted their rhythm.

And she laughs, head tipped back against the stacks still behind her on the shelf. It's the sort of laugh that comes from the belly, and she can't stop for a moment until his mouth drops down to her breasts again. Then the tug of his teeth and lips on her nipples blank everything but the feel of him again.

She comes, then, a high-pitched sound escaping her in a keen that drifts into a moan as he doesn't stop.

Dropping her hand from her grip on his shoulder, she reaches behind her for extra leverage, and rolls her hips harshly, grinding into him, demanding that he follow her.

The strangled sound from earlier spills from him, and he falls into her, gasping and panting as he shakes in her arms.

The sight of Sherlock Holmes in climax is more than enough to tighten her inner muscles again, and she floats on the feeling. This. This was how she had hoped sex would be, when she was a teen. Just learning her own body, just discovering what made her tick--this was how all the romance novels described it.

Well. Not the desperate closet-sex-before-he-leaves--desperation was in more than one, but they were more about seeing stars and incredible cocks and painless losses of virginity.

Desperation in a closet smelling of lemon and paper was usually not a component of the Modern Girl Gets Her Man type that her mother had loved to read.

She's still shaking from the after-shocks, hand bracing against the shelf for stability, when he says into her neck, "Molly, I need you to find me a body."

The laughter she spurts out with is just as inappropriate as it was before and it doesn't matter. Because right in this moment, he is hers. And he needs her to find him a body. She chokes it back down her throat and under her ribs. "Right. Got it. How long do we have?"

Disengaging will come in just a moment, reality will reassert itself. The sweat on her skin, the half-collapsed pile of paper towels digging into her back, the residue between her thighs--it will all become real again in a moment.

Molly closes her eyes and draws in another breath before releasing it. "Sherlock?"

"This can't happen again," he whispers into the skin of her neck.

"I know."

His hand releases her hip, and they untangle. Awkwardly, they stumble away from each other in the cramped space. Sherlock does something with a tissue and the condom. Molly digs her bra out from the corner. They dress, they try to make themselves presentable. On firmer ground, armor in place, they step out of the closet together.

-f-


End file.
